


Please Don't Knock Over My Heart

by theabominablesnowman



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is good with languages, M/M, Student Derek, brief off-screen violence, security guard stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:19:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7941085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theabominablesnowman/pseuds/theabominablesnowman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek works the night shift at the information desk of a small hospital. Stiles is the security guard who likes making sure Derek stays safe and isn't bored during the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Don't Knock Over My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to @paintedrecs for her beta and nitpicking and moral support during this writing process. Cannot thank you enough. Thank you to Jenn (@Reaping) for the very, very appreciated same thing :) 
> 
> Another thank you to Hisagi90! For correcting my German because I was too lazy to do it myself.
> 
> Title is from Miike Snow's Heart Is Full, which everyone should check out. I'll even link you: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWJHK0JT_Xc
> 
> Translations will be in the end notes :)
> 
> I am itsaseasonalthing on tumblr and you should come visit if you feel like it!

 

Derek has a routine. It's not the greatest routine – working nights and going to classes in the morning begins to take its toll after a year – but it's his routine, and it works for him. He works the 24-hour information desk at a small hospital, providing information both to visitors of the hospital and to the people working in it.

He likes the night shift because it pays better, and because there aren’t a lot of people. When he works the rare day shift he wishes for death at least four times per shift. The day shift is full of rude people and weird and stupid phone calls, like people asking him for doctors’ personal phone numbers, or yelling at him for telling them that they can’t visit the hospital at a certain hour at night because there are rules. Sometimes he gets phone calls from people who don’t know the name of the patient they’re looking for. The night shift is quiet, peaceful, and he can do his school work with little to no interruptions most nights.

There's also the added bonus of the night-time security guys. Specifically, one of them who walks with a bit of a swagger, has messy brown hair, and eyes that glitter with happiness and a sense of troublemaking. Speaking of which –

"Working night, huh?" The guy passes by his office with a smile, a wink, and a wave before Derek has time to recalibrate his brain and reply. He's pretty slow going when faced with people he's attracted to, who also show any kind of interest in him.

He stammers something that sounds like, "Uh, yeah, like always," and laughs awkwardly, and Cute Security Guy winks at him again and throws his radio up in the air, catching it while looking at Derek.

The following morning, when they’re both finishing their shifts, Derek sees him joking around with his other friends from the security company, CSG and the rest of the guards on their way out from the microcosmos that is their little hospital. Derek stays back, too awkward to join in, even though Cute Security Guy (whose name Derek hasn't had the guts to ask for yet) looks over at him like he's waiting.

The next time they work the same shift, CSG steps into Derek’s office to indulge in his favorite hobby: wasting Derek's office supplies. CSG always steals his pens, although he’s not the only offender on that count. (Derek keeps track. Pens get stolen from their office every day. One day he left his shift and there were six brand new pens in the little cup on the desk. The next day, the only two left were old ones. He doesn't understand.) There’s one thing CSG likes doing in particular, though, and Derek suspects he enjoys it because it makes Derek angry – which is pull blank paper from the receipt printer on his desk.

"So…working night again?" CSG says, smirking down at him. Derek looks him over, tries to find a name tag on his person like the one Derek is forced to wear. CSG wears a work uniform that isn’t exactly ‘police’ but isn’t ‘regular citizen’ either. He’s got heavy work boots on that Derek can hear stomping before he can even see CSG, a tight black t-shirt with his company’s logo that’s tucked into work pants, and a gun on his belt, right next to his radio. Derek is required to wear a “respectable” button down and his name tag somewhere visible. He suspects his boss only asks him to wear it so he can keep track of complaints.

"Yes. I always work nights. You know this. You ask me that every time you see me."

"Yeah, well, I guess I just like seeing you smile."

Derek gives him an unimpressed look and still blushes what feels like a very deep shade of red.  

CSG smiles a little wider and grabs one of the pens from the pen holder on Derek's desk. He clicks it a few times and twirls it between his fingers. Derek’s eyes are glued to the movement until CSG talks again. "I'm taking a couple of days off, thought I'd let you know.” He sounds casual enough, Derek thinks, unsure of why that throws him off, like he was expecting CSG to sound...more invested in not being around him.

"Whatever will I do without you coming to ask me the same question every night and stealing my pens?" Derek places a hand over his heart and goes for a pretty accurate southern accent. CSG looks surprised and laughs. "Put the pen back," Derek adds, in his normal voice.

"I figured you'd just pine away until I come back from war," CSG says, placing the pen back in the cup.

Derek shakes his head but doesn't confirm or deny the statement. He probably would pine a little, and hate himself a little bit about it, too.

"I know you miss me when we're not working the same shift and I don't come to waste some of your office supplies," CSG continues, going for his second favorite activity of pulling blank paper from the small receipt printer.

"Stop – Stop doing that! It's wasteful!"

"No one will know," CSG winks at him.

Derek suppresses a groan as he feels himself blushing again. "I'll know!" he says, exasperated. "Why do you even do that? You always just crumple the paper up and throw it away."

CSG looks like he was caught red handed stealing from the cookie jar. "I…I just like the noise it makes? And the thing your eyebrows do when you frown."

Derek frowns deeper and rubs a hand over his eyebrows, "I – my eyebrows aren't doing anything," he says, ducking his head to hide it.

"Don't worry, it's pretty cute," CSG says and Derek kind of wants to die because that's really not cool. That's not something he can handle on very little sleep.

"Yeah, right. Sure," he says, scoffing.

CSG's radio suddenly comes to life and Derek is disappointed, knowing the only actual company he likes having during these quiet shifts is leaving. "Guess I have to go," CSG says.

"Can you just tell me your name before you do? It's driving me crazy and I have a name tag, so you already know mine." The “cute” comment gave Derek some confidence, at least enough to ask for a name.

"Oh, dude, I never realized you don't know! My name is Stiles, and I really have to jet," CSG – Stiles – says, turning away to leave.

Derek isn't sure he was given a real name. "What kind of name is Stiles?" he calls after him, and Stiles looks back at him and smiles the sunshine smile at him again. "It's my name," he says, shrugging, and jogs off toward the exit.

The next time they have an opportunity to talk, about a week later because their shifts don’t coincide - Derek keeps seeing Stiles leaving just as he arrives or vice versa - Derek is so engrossed in his studies that he doesn't notice Stiles coming into his office until he leans pretty close and asks, "What are you studying?"

Derek startles and then groans. Blushes again, wishing for some semblance of control over his face. "University stuff," he answers.

"I figured that one out myself, thanks. I meant what's your major?" Stiles gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder and Derek looks at his hand, feeling heat spreading out from the point of contact.

"I major in Linguistics," he replies after realizing he was staring a little too long.

"Oh, cool! So…what do you study in Linguistics?"

"Mainly languages," Derek answers, unable to hold back the sarcasm.

"Very funny. Come on, do you speak like a million languages?" Stiles asks, and he looks like that's actually an exciting concept for him, so Derek obliges.

"Not a _million_ ," Derek starts and stops before he adds, "and it depends on how you define 'speaking’, in a way." Derek scratches the back of his neck, ducks his head. He has an inner debate on whether or not Stiles is actually interested in this line of conversation. Usually people aren't.

“What does that mean? You either understand a language or you don’t, no?” Stiles blinks at him, looks like he’s trying to figure it out on his own.

“There are different levels of understanding, the way I see it. You can go in percentages, for example. I’d say being considered a speaker means you can understand at least 80% of a spoken conversation and 90% of written text. Understanding spoken conversation is always harder,” Derek explains. “But you can also be at 60% of understanding a written text. So you can read it, but you don’t necessarily know everything you’re reading,” he concludes, smiling bashfully. Stiles looks satisfyingly awed and curious.

“Okay, that’s crazy. How many languages, then? You seem like you’d know a million,” Stiles claims again, and Derek laughs.

“ _Not_ a million,” Derek repeats. “I speak four languages, and I can read in another five. Or six?” He stops, thinking. It feels like he’s missing one. “Oh, no, that’s actually seven,” he corrects, and Stiles’ jaw falls open.

“ _What._ ”

“What?” Derek shrugs.

“That’s insane! Don’t you get confused?” Stiles leans over the computer screen on Derek’s desk and his eyes are shining in that way that makes Derek smile involuntarily. He looks at Derek like he’s the most fascinating thing in existence and Derek doesn’t want to disappoint.

“Of course not,” he lies, straight-faced. He replies in the wrong language at least three times a day, depending on the classes he had or book he was reading.

“I don’t believe you,” Stiles says with conviction. He stares at Derek with suspicion, waiting for him to break.

“You _just_ said I look like someone who would know a million languages.” Derek huffs, a little hurt.

“And you do! You know a million languages! But, you’re also human. And no way in a _million_ years that you never get confused.”  

Derek is saved by Stiles’ radio beeping and then someone saying, “Stilinski, get to the front gate; Stilinski, you getting this?”

Derek tries to bite down his smile. “Your name is Stiles Stilinski?”

Stiles shrugs and says, “I’ll tell you about it next time.” He smiles and waves at Derek and leaves again, and Derek reluctantly goes back to studying.

In the morning when they’re both done with their shift, Stiles waves at Derek as he leaves, and Derek waves back. He never knows when they’ll see each other next; Stiles works all different shifts, while Derek mostly works the evening or night shits.

Two weeks go by before they work together again, and Derek only sees Stiles near the end of the shift, when it’s almost 5 AM, and he’s been falling asleep and jerking awake every couple minutes. He rubs his eyes, trying to get them to open all the way, and ends up falling asleep again with his chin on his hand, his arm propped up on the desk.

He jerks awake again when he hears a loud noise that sounds like a cat yowling and jumps what feels like two feet in the air. He looks up to find Stiles snickering, walking by and winking at him. “Just a little more, Sleeping Beauty!”

“Shut up,” Derek grumbles, slowly removing the hand he realizes he pressed to his chest when Stiles startled him. Stiles walks over and leans towards the little window that connects Derek to the world outside his office.

“Tired?” he smiles, way too satisfied with himself for Derek’s taste.

“Been on a night shift and then straight to classes cycle for three days now. My teachers have taken to shaking me awake.”

Stiles clucks his tongue and frowns. “Dude, that can’t be healthy. You should definitely take a break.”

“Can’t,” Derek shrugs and smiles fondly at Stiles. “What do you do outside of work? Are you a student?”

“Nope. Not yet, anyway. Saving up for the police academy, actually.” Stiles smiles at him and he looks proud. Like he enjoys talking about it. Derek nods his head, impressed.

“Sounds great,” he says, and suddenly remembers Stiles still owes him an explanation about his name. “You haven’t told me why you’re called Stiles Stilinski yet,” he accuses.

“My mom was Polish. She decided to honor her heritage by giving me a monstrosity of a first name that I can’t, to this day, pronounce correctly, even though I speak some Polish. But it always made her laugh because I had a really strong American accent,” Stiles admits with a blush, and Derek melts a little.

“I speak some Polish. I’ve got the pronunciation down pretty well, maybe I can teach you. Spell it out for me?” Derek pulls out a notepad and pen, looks expectantly at Stiles.

Stiles perks up and his eyes go round, like he can’t believe what Derek just said. “Okay okay, let me just…” he trails off and pulls out a name tag, “I don’t always remember how to spell it,” he explains. “Okay, it’s M, A, T, E, U, S, Z.”

Derek gives him a flat look. “It’s a really common name, I can’t believe you didn’t google this. You pronounce it ‘Ma-te-uwsh,’ and your mom basically named you Matthew. You could have literally gone by Matt as a kid.”

“No! That would literally be the worst; I knew a Matt in high school, and that guy was a really creepy douche. No way,” Stiles protests, and then deflates. “Seriously though? Matthew? That’s so generic.” He looks disappointed. “Wait, say it again. I want to try and do it too.” He motions at Derek with his hand, and Derek huffs a small laugh and says the name again. “Ma-te-ush,” Stiles tries.

“Close, but try again. Ma-te- _uwsh_ ,” Derek enunciates the last part, and looks expectantly at Stiles.

“Nope, not gonna happen. I’ll be Mateush forever.” Stiles shrugs. “How come you can do this?”

“Pretty good with accents,” Derek says quietly, ducking his head. “Don’t really know why or how.”

“That’s the coolest thing ever!” Stiles taps his fingers on the window he’s leaning against. His radio crackles and comes to life and he looks down at it and stares like it’ll make it stop. “I hate this stupid thing,” he mumbles, and the radio crackles again, “Stilinski, get your ass down here!”

Stiles sighs. “Damn it. Guess I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“...yeah,” Derek says to Stiles’ retreating back. He kind of hates that radio too.

Derek has the next two weeks off from work in honor of his finals, and he returns with a lighter heart and a thrum of excitement at the thought of seeing Stiles again. He usually doesn’t notice Stiles coming up to his office until he can hear his boots stomping their way through the door, but this time he kept his eyes on the hallway, waiting for the right moment. “Good night, Matthew!” He calls, and as Stiles passes by he raises his head from his phone, looking straight at Derek, squinting his eyes. He looks around for a second, trying to figure out if Derek was talking to someone else, and then walks towards Derek’s office.

“Don’t - ugh, please don’t, that’s so weird.” Stiles walks through the door, leans against the wall behind it as it closes.

“Would you prefer Mateusz?” Derek laughs, and Stiles scowls deeper.

“Definitely neither of those,” he shivers. “No one used that one on me since my mom...uh,” he stops short, and Derek remembers Stiles mentioned his mom _was_ Polish. Not is.

“That’s okay,” he says, reassuring him he doesn’t have to spell it out. “I understand. Doesn’t your dad use it?” He immediately wishes he hadn’t asked – what if Stiles’ father was gone too?

Stiles barks a surprised laugh and pushes a hand through his hair. “Only when he’s seriously angry. Like, I got arrested for underage drinking kind of angry. He was super embarrassed, the Sheriff’s own kid getting arrested.” Stiles makes a face and shivers again. “I was grounded for two months. And he took away my Jeep for four months.”

“Ouch,” Derek sympathises. “How many times did he use your real name?” he asks, trying to bring a smile back to Stiles’ lips.

“Way too many, after that incident. That was the first time since I was 8 that I remembered that was my actual name,” Stiles laughs.

Derek smiles, nods. “I can remind you occasionally,” he offers innocently. Stiles scoffs at him and throws a balled up piece of paper he just pulled from Derek’s printer. It hits Derek on the arm. “So, dad’s the sheriff and you want to be a cop?”

“That’s a first date type of question,” Stiles deflects. “And you still haven’t told me which languages you speak.”

Derek’s brain falters on the part where Stiles said ‘first date’ and it takes him a minute to figure out Stiles said something else after that. “What?”

“Languages. That you know. Tell me. You owe me now,” Stiles claims.

Derek squints at him. “I thought it worked the opposite, once you know Rumpelstiltskin's name you don’t owe him anything anymore,” he smirks. He’s satisfied with his joke.

Stiles opens his mouth to reply and then curses instead as his radio once again interrupts them. “Fuck,” he says, punching the wall behind him for emphasis. “You still owe me,” he says as he opens the door.

“Ich schulde dir nichts,” Derek calls, shrugging, and Stiles stops in his tracks for a moment.

“What does that mean?”

“Figure it out!”

Stiles shakes his head and laughs, disappearing down the hallway leading to the ER. Derek goes back to horsing around on Facebook, debating whether or not he feels like watching something on Netflix. He finished Stranger Things a couple of days ago and his life lost a little bit of its meaning. In the meantime he listens to some music on YouTube, starting with just passively listening, moving up to mouthing out the words, and then outright singing quietly along.

He’s engrossed in an article from the extra reading material for one of his classes and doesn’t notice he’s singing along to Miike Snow, and that he’s not too quiet about it either.

Suddenly Stiles’ face appears in the small window in front of Derek’s desk, and he’s smiling like he’s going to tease him about it. Derek shuts the window in Stiles’ face to prevent it, Derek’s teeth clacking loudly as he shuts his mouth.

“Hey, no! Don’t stop, you’ve got a nice voice,” Stiles says. Since his voice is muffled through the window, he walks into the office instead. Derek opens the window back up, clicking the YouTube video to stop it from playing. “Saw you enjoying yourself on the security cameras, thought I’d come by and enjoy myself too,” he grins.

“You _watch me_ on the security cameras?” Derek’s eyes widen in horrified mortification and Stiles backtracks immediately.

“Not all the time! Oh, whoa, no, not in the creepy way, just _sometimes_ to make sure everything’s okay and no one is bothering you.” Stiles raises his hands in front of him in a placating motion.

“Except for you,” Derek retorts and deflates a little. He’s touched that Stiles keeps track of what’s going on with him. A downside of working nights is that you get _all_ the weirdos, and they’re sometimes…violent. The fact that they have a security camera on him definitely explains all the times one of the security guys magically shows up when someone’s being…difficult.

“Excuse you, I’m a joy to be around and I brighten your nights!” Stiles huffs, feigning offence. Derek doesn’t admit that Stiles is 100% right. “So German, huh? What’s your percentage on German?”

Derek frowns, confused. “What about German?”

“You spoke in German before, when you said - I don’t remember what you said, but it was in German. So? German percentage?”

Derek flushes, thinking about his answer, hoping it doesn’t come off as show-off-ish. “100%, actually. My mother is German, I grew up bilingual.”

“Man, I wish I kept up with the Polish,” Stiles sighs. “It was just weird with my mom gone, I guess.” He shrugs and smiles at Derek. “But that’s really cool, about your mom. How did you learn all those other ones?”

Derek takes a deep breath, stalling to think of an answer better than ‘ _I just sort of picked it up along the way and then started university and picked up some more_ ’. “I - uh, well. It just kind of…happened, I guess?” He shrugs, and he really wants to facepalm. That doesn’t sound any better by a mile.

Stiles looks at him like he doubts it, and Derek figures he’s right to do so. “Okay, guess that’s a first date kind of question too.” Stiles says with a shrug, and switches the subject. “What were you listening to? You looked like you were really enjoying yourself.” He smiles and gestures at Derek’s laptop.

Derek tries to subtly turn it away from where Stiles was craning his neck to get a better look. “Just - um, Miike Snow? You know them?”

Stiles’ face shines and his eyes sparkle in that way Derek likes best, and he says, “Dude, of course I do! _And I-I-I-I get a little bit Genghis Khan, don’t want you to get it onnnn…”_ he sings, and he’s really off key and Derek shrinks in his seat trying to get away from it. “Come on, I’m not that bad,” Stiles huffs when he notices Derek covering his ears.

“You’re definitely that bad,” Derek argues, laughing.

“Hey, they’re Swedish, right? Do you speak Swedish?” Stiles brightens further, like he solved a mystery, and Derek scratches at his cheek where he let his beard grow a little longer over finals, before shaking his head no.

“No, not really. But you should keep guessing. There’s only about 6000 languages in active use around the world,” Derek laughs, spins around in his office chair.

Stiles’ mouth falls open and he opens and closes it twice, squinting his eyes at Derek. “Who even knows something like that off the top of their head?” he asks, awed and a little annoyed, maybe? Derek isn’t sure. He likes it anyway.

“I do. You learn it in Linguistics 101.” He scratches at his chest, under his button-down. Stiles’ eyes follow the movement and his cheeks turn a blotchy red. Derek likes that, too. “My eyes are up here,” he jokes, snapping his fingers, and watches as Stiles’ cheeks turn a deeper blotchy red and it goes down his neck.

Stiles’ radio chooses that exact second to shout, “Stilinski, stop flirting with the Information Desk guy and get up here please,” and Stiles looks down at it, going suddenly completely pale.

“Boyd, you’re the biggest douche on the planet,” he says, pulling the radio up to his lips, and then looks at Derek apologetically. “I’ll see you next time, maybe? When’s your next shift?”

Derek is still reeling a little from the comment that came from Stiles’ radio, and it takes him a good couple of seconds to look down at his desk where the weekly schedule was written down. “Uh, I - um,” his vision swims a little, and his cheeks feel hot. “I’m working the night shift the day after tomorrow,” he manages, and doesn’t look up at Stiles.

“Damn it. I’m working day shifts the rest of the week.” Stiles pounds his fist on the wall and he sighs. The radio goes off again: “I mean it, Stilinski. That’s twice in the same night, it ain’t gonna fly,” and Stiles rolls his eyes and opens the door. “See you, yeah?” He looks at Derek hopefully and Derek nods.

“Definitely,” he replies.

Stiles smiles and turns to leave, and his radio starts, “Seriously Stilinski, just ask -” and Stiles flees at that point so Derek doesn’t hear the end of that sentence.

Derek starts counting the shifts that pass without Stiles. He reaches six, and has now come to terms that it might be even longer before he sees Stiles again, so he relaxes and starts singing again, forgetting that there are security cameras on him, even if Stiles is nowhere in sight. “...Please don’t knock over my heaaaart, ‘cause my heart is full of you, yeah my heart is full of you, woah-oh, and don’t worry ‘bout tomorrrrow…”

“Whoa, do that again!” Stiles claps, smiling at Derek from outside the little window.

Derek jumps back and yells. “Oh my god, I think you gave me a heart attack,” he grumbles, frowning up at Stiles.

“Good thing we’re in a hospital. So, do that trilly ‘r’ again please!” Stiles even claps his hands a few times to emphasize his excitement.

Derek squints at him. “What?” Derek listens to the song in the background that has now gone back to the chorus and hears that the singer trills the ‘r’ in tomorrow, and that he must have done it without realizing. “I’m not doing that again,” he huffs.

“Please!” Stiles drags the word out, sounding like a toddler, and Derek turns his spinning chair away from him. Stiles is undeterred and just walks inside the office and stands in front of Derek instead.

“I didn’t even realize I was doing it, I don’t know if I can do it again,” Derek sighs, ducks his head to look at Stiles’ scuffed work boots tapping on the floor.

“Blatant lie, I bet you do it all the time when you speak…Spanish!”

“No,” Derek lies.

“Italian?”

Derek looks up at him and scoffs. “Stop guessing.” He shoves him gently away, spins his chair back to face the desk.

“Never. I figured out you were speaking in German that one time,” Stiles reminds him proudly. “And you definitely owe me,” he clarifies, leaning against Derek’s desk on Derek’s right, close enough that Derek can smell his nice cologne. The scent disappears suddenly, then reappears when Stiles moves back and pulls up the extra chair in Derek’s office to sit next to him. He stretches his (long, so long) legs and smirks at Derek.

“Ich schulde dir nichts,” Derek says again, smiling back.

“Come on! It’s not like I’m asking for your social security number,” Stiles whines and leans back dramatically over his chair, looking like he’s spilling out of it towards the floor.

Derek laughs, head falling back. “I do speak Spanish,” he relents and Stiles crows and pumps his fist in the air.

“I knew it!” He laughs, and leans forward in his chair. “Now say something in Spanish.”

Derek levels him with a very unimpressed face, squinting his eyes and pursing his mouth. “Something. In. Spanish.” He says this in the most deadpan tone he can muster with Stiles looking at him the way he is.

Stiles looks at him with bated breath until he realizes what Derek’s doing and laughs like Derek just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. He throws his head back and his cute upturned nose crinkles and Derek just watches, mesmerised. “Should have known you were going to say something sarcastic, your eyebrows were doing the thing,” Stiles says, still chuckling a little like it’s taking him time to get over laughing.

Derek spins away from him. “My eyebrows don’t do any kind of thing,” he huffs, shaking his head.

“They totally, totally do.” Stiles says, spins Derek’s chair back so they’re facing. “Come on, just one tiny sentence in Spanish.

“Eres un idiota y te odio,” Derek does the trilled ‘r’ and everything, and grins at Stiles.

Stiles squints at him, stares with his mouth slightly open, looking offended. “I’m hurt,” he says dramatically, leaning back in his chair, flinging his head back. “I mean, you called me an idiot but I don’t know what the other part is. But I assume it was also offensive.”

“Te odio means I hate you,” Derek obliges, keeps smiling at Stiles’ antics.

“You _love_ me!”

“Ja, das stimmt,” Derek sighs quietly, not realizing he used German instead of thinking it quietly to himself, scrubs his hand over his forehead. He looks up and Stiles is grinning at him like he won. “What?”

“You just answered in the wrong language. I knew it happens!” Stiles laughs and claps his hands together to congratulate himself, maybe. Then he frowns and looks down at his belt where his radio’s making noises that Derek has grown to despise. “God dammit, what is it now?” Stiles asks, mostly himself probably.

“Two adults fighting outside entrance to ER, you’re closest, Stilinski. Think one of them is packing, not sure. Be careful, we’re sending two more guys down.”

Derek’s smile is wiped off his face. Stiles’ face hardens and he puts a hand on his own gun, fingering it in a way that looks like he’s doing it for confidence.

“Don’t - don’t leave your office, okay? Not until I come over and tell you it’s fine,” Stiles stands and points a warning finger at Derek.

“Trust me, I wasn’t planning on it,” he says quietly. Stiles nods once and runs out towards the ER. Derek doesn’t hear anything for a while, and then a single gunshot. “Scheiße,” he hisses, and calls the ER. “Who got shot?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not your precious security guard. Just one of the idiots who were fighting. The one with the gun managed to fire a single bullet at the other guy’s foot before your hero tackled him,” Erica, who works the ER reception desk, picks up and answers him.

“Jes - fuck you, Erica,” Derek breathes, and thunks his head down on his desk.

“Come on, grumpy face. Everyone knows. There’s a betting pool on which one of you will get the balls to ask the other out first.” Derek hears something that sounds like Erica smacking her gum over the phone and makes a disgusted noise, and then what she says registers.

“Fuck off, Erica.” Derek sighs and he hangs up to the sound of her cackling at him.

Derek doesn’t see Stiles at all for the rest of the night, but one of the other guys from his company walks by and tells him everything’s okay. Derek sinks back in his chair and isn’t in the mood for music anymore.

He doesn’t see Stiles for a good couple of days after that. There’s something thrumming under his skin, until one evening he shows up to work and his coworker hands him a note and says, “One of the security guys left this for you this morning,” and shrugs before he leaves.

Derek opens the note, which has “Gehen auf ein Date mit mir? --Mateusz” written on it, and a phone number underneath. Derek grabs his phone, unable to get the grin off his face, and texts “Bardzo chciałabym, Mateusz” to Stiles.

Stiles texts him not a minute later. “Thank god for Google Translate,” it says, and there’s a laughing emoji at the end. Derek laughs too.

He spins in his chair back and forth, feeling giddy. He’s thinking what to text back when there’s a quiet knock on his office door, and Stiles is standing there.

“So...Polish?” Stiles grins and leans against the wall.

“Some,” Derek amends. “Had to use Google Translate,” he admits and laughs.

Stiles laughs a little louder. “Yes! Awesome. You’re not all powerful.”

“I never said I was!” Derek protests, and gives Stiles an outraged look.

“Well, I did.” Stiles shrugs and Derek groans.

“Shut up,” he flings at him and smacks Stiles’ leg, feeling brave enough to initiate physical contact. Stiles sits on the chair across from his and smacks him back.

“So...when are you _not_ working?”

Derek throws his head back, laughing. “When are _you_ not working?”

“Touché.” Stiles raises his arms in defeat. He straightens up with a sudden, bright smile. “Maybe we can go get breakfast once we finish here?”

Derek smiles. “That sounds…amazing, actually. I make great pancakes,” he boasts. He likes the idea of being closer to his bed after a night of work.

“Already inviting me to your apartment? I thought pancakes at your place are after...well, a night spent...not...at work,” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows in a really ridiculous way and Derek flushes and laughs because he didn’t realize what that sounded like.

“You’ll have to wait at least three breakfasts for that,” Derek mock-huffs at him, then breaks down in another laugh. “So…pancakes?” He winks, raises an eyebrow.

Stiles grins. “My favorite,” he confirms. “I have to go, but I’ll see you at 7 when we’re both done?”

Derek’s body feels warm and his ears feel _hot_ , but he nods. “Yeah. Yes.”

Derek’s standing, waiting for Stiles at the front entrance of the hospital, and when he gets there they walk together to the parking lot, hands brushing carefully. When they both get into their respective cars Derek watches Stiles’ jeep follow his camaro - a gift from his parents - in his rearview mirror and he can’t hold back his smile.

They park outside his apartment building, and the first thing Stiles does when they get inside is ask to be pointed to the bathroom, where he changes into the normal clothes he’d been carrying in a backpack that looks like Stiles has been carrying it since he was in high school. Derek changes his white button down into a soft grey henley and is back in his living room in time to see Stiles emerge in a slightly less tight t-shirt (Derek kind of misses the tight shirt) and plain jeans and Derek…really likes it anyway. He’s not wearing his boots, and Derek watches him put those in his backpack too, where he can also see a pair of battered backup sneakers.

“Uh...kitchen?” Derek stammers a little, suddenly awkward and shy. Derek is neat, and clean, so he’s not afraid of Stiles judging him based on these things. But he’s still nervous, wondering what Stiles is thinking. They walk over to the kitchen and Derek starts taking out everything he needs for the pancakes. Stiles watches quietly with a soft smile.

“Could probably get used to you making breakfast for me after night shifts,” Stiles smirks and touches his socked foot to Derek’s calf, drawing Derek’s attention from his work, leaning against the small island in Derek’s kitchen.

Derek kicks it away and huffs. “You don’t plan on reciprocating?”

“If you’re cool with hot pockets I can definitely work something out,” Stiles shrugs, raising his eyebrows in a challenge.

Derek laughs, starts mixing up ingredients, and looks behind him at Stiles. “Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me?”

“I’ve only ever seen you sitting and I’m definitely a fan of that ass, so yes, that sounds like a good plan to me,” Stiles shrugs, winks at him.

Derek turns back to face the bowl because he blushes up to his ears. He gets Stiles to set the table while he’s flipping the pancakes and they both yawn at length when they sit down to eat.

“Mmm, these _are_ great,” Stiles moans around his mouthful, and Derek makes a face.

“Mit vollem Mund spricht man nicht,” he says on autopilot before he realizes that was both in German as well as something only his mother says.

Stiles covers his mouth and starts laughing, stops to swallow and continues. “I knew it. I knew you get confused. Probably all the time.”

“I’m just tired,” Derek tries to defend his honor but he’s probably missed that train.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing important.” Derek waves it off and hopes Stiles never, ever finds out. He can feel his face burn though, and knows Stiles will figure out it was something embarrassing, so he shoves another bite of pancakes in his mouth. Stiles doesn’t comment though, except for humming like he doesn’t believe him. They continue eating, interspersed with quiet conversation. They’re both tired.

Derek makes tea with no caffeine because they both need to sleep after this, and when their mugs are empty, they both hover over the kitchen table.

“I’ll do the dishes,” Stiles offers and Derek waves him off.

“No, that’s okay, you should go get some sleep,” he says but neither of them make a move towards the door.

“I...this is going to sound weird, but I don’t really want to leave.” Stiles says, almost too quietly for Derek to hear. Derek feels warm all over again.

“I...don’t really want you to leave either? I also don't think you should be driving that far with no sleep.” He smiles carefully at him and Stiles rewards him with a giant, bright grin.

“I can sleep on the couch --”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” Derek vetoes immediately.

“I thought you said I’ll have to wait at least three breakfasts before I get in your bed?” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows because he’s ridiculous, but this time Derek retaliates and wiggles his own right back.

“I changed my mind,” he says lightly and leads the way to his bedroom, dishes forgotten.

They hover some more before Derek strips off his shirt and Stiles follows suit, then waits until Derek takes off his jeans to remove his own. There’s nothing sexual about it. They’re both visibly exhausted. Derek shuts his blinds, leaving the room dark, with only a small lamp next to Derek’s bed providing light. “Sure you want to stay?” Derek asks, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding Stiles’ gaze.

“Yeah. Yes. Definitely another thing I could get used to doing after night shifts.” He elbows Derek on his way to the bed before Derek stops him.

“That’s my side,” he chuckles quietly.

“Oh, sorry, your majesty,” Stiles says with a bow, and walks around to the other side. They both slide under the covers with matching loud, bone-weary sighs. “Oh my god, your bed is so nice. I’m never leaving,” Stiles moans and Derek elbows him in the ribs.

“Shut up and sleep,” he says instead of ‘ _Please never leave_ ’ and closes his eyes. “I could…probably get used to this too.” He whispers, and Stiles touches his arm to Derek’s gently before they both drift off.

**Author's Note:**

> Ich schulde dir nichts = German, "I don't owe you anything."
> 
> Eres un idiota y te odio = Spanish, "You're an idiot and I hate you."
> 
> Ja, das stimmt = German, "Yes, that's true."
> 
> Gehen auf ein Date mit mir? = German, "Go on a date with me?"
> 
> Bardzo chciałabym = Polish, "I would love to."
> 
> Mit vollem Mund spricht man nicht = German, "One doesn't speak with their mouth full." (something like that)


End file.
